Wrought Anarch
Childhood. Life before the war... Few care now, fewer cared then. The protests. The ash. The death. The injustice. All Wrought saw, as a child. Didn't have much growing up. Child that he was, he did what he could to help his parents and protesters. Even in live fire against the machine. Bombs. The bombs took everything. The man. The machine. The child. Nothing was left. And there he was. Alone. So he did what he always had - survived. Life wasn't easy. He made his way north, far from the ashes of home. Wasn't as hard to scavenge there. Game was plentiful, if irradiated. Over eight years, he grew. Taller, stronger. Met some people, fended off some people. Didn't have a need to kill, never did. Shotguns were plentiful, and easy to use. He went by his real name, hunted and traded. Better than starving for scraps. Brotherhood. The Brotherhood of Steel were often xenophobes. Didn't like non-military folks. But, Wrought found his way in. Hard work was something he was accustomed to. Taught him the skills he needed to thrive, not just survive. He questioned Maxson's teachings. More than most. But, he stuck with them. His squad became what he'd lost in the Ashes - a family. He learned to fight, properly. Scavenge. Even had a knack for working tech. He wasn't a genius, especially lacking proper education. Training helped. Experience helped more. His squad kept him grounded. They fought together, they drank together. They learned together, they lived together. They survived together, they thrived together. All the while, the Brotherhood moved forward. He was there when Taggerdy closed up the Brotherhood. There for Huntersville. There to take Thunder Mountain. He learned things then. Not to trust everyone so lightly. How scavenge parts of a Raider's corpse. How to kill. It was easy, once you did it once. Man, machine, mutant. All fell to the bullet. As did his new family. Wrought Iron. It was a foggy morning in the Mire. He'd just argued with... Someone over Maxson's teachings. Got fed up, left to hunt. Brotherhood can't provide all the troops with food. It was a few hours. Hardly long enough to matter. The pale corpses that awaited him when he got back said otherwise. They were all dead. Gus, Shannon, O'Riley, George, Nico... All gone. Torn to pieces. Eye pierced with hooks. His family. Gone. Raiders. A little note was all that was left. A location. All he had was a trace, and broken dreams. So he followed the tracks, for twelve years. Hunting. Discovering. Learning. Over the time, he left Appalachia. Found the gruesome fates of some. Caused the gruesome fates of others. Part of his life became associating with those he had hated. Raiders. Over time, he found what he'd seen in the Brotherhood. Friendship. Trust. Power. Stability. But without the flaws. No obsession with technology. No xenophobia. Just a desire to rebuild in a different way. And he enjoyed it. Over time, his ideals changed from those the Brotherhood gave him. Became darker. More twisted. Yet still nearly benevolent. Nearly. The man he was died. He grew into the man he is now. Wrought Anarch. Now, he's on the precipice. The last gang member is all that remains. His last tie to his past. Details Skilled in: Repairing power armor Modifying and repairing laser weapons Electronics Survival, living as a raider Temperament: Wrought is often of a cold nature. However, he is prone to bouts of rage. Considers himself at the same level as others, respects experience. Category:Characters Category:Raiders